Sparkla
by YoshiStar21
Summary: Thatz tha thang bout fire. Yo ass can look yo, but you mustn't touch fo' realz. And, sooner or later, it uses itself up.
1. Tobias

**June 6th, 1967**

Da rock went wide of its target, n' tha hoe wit tha singed eyebrows avoided it by inches. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch stopped dead on tha sidewalk as it smacked tha fuck into a rustin street sign, n' then tha shoutin started.

Shakin her muthafuckin ass, she looked, n' found two ragtag gangz of thugs on either end of tha narrow street. Both was closin up in on tha lot wit tha yellow grass-the straight-up same dat freaky freaky biatch had been admirin from across tha street. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had barely noticed dem before. Instead dat freaky freaky biatch had been too focused on tha grass itself, n' how tha fuck up in tha heat of summer it had gone so dry n' brittle. Dat shiznit was such a muthafucka dat shiznit was up in tha middle of Boston instead of somewhere where dat biiiiatch wouldn't git up in shiznit if she lit tha whole thang on fire.

Da shoutin gots louder n' shit. Mo' rocks zinged by, none comin so close as tha first, n' they was answered wit jeers n' a gangbangin' finger-lickin' discarded brew forty flung from tha other direction. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it spun lazily all up in tha air n' shattered on tha pavement: a signal.

Da on tha down-low of tha street splintered apart as tha packs slammed together like a thunderclap.

Bitch scarcely had time ta dive behind a cold-ass lil collection of musty furniture chillin on tha side of tha street, some suckaz of a unpaid n' unsympathetic landlord. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da gangs converged on one another, eight against seven by her count. They swung hockey sticks or bats or fists, they came at each other as mad dawgs would, all tha air a gangbangin' frantic choruz of howls n' yells. Insults was hurled like spears at mah playas n' everyonez mother, n' tha crew of eight, apparently all pluggin tha same mutha if looks was anythang ta go by, took grievous offense. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch peeped it as one of these, gangly n' wieldin a funky-ass bat, knocked down one of his opponents n' darted a lil ways back-he lobbed a funky-ass bizzle up in tha air above him, caught up his bat-swung-

Da basebizzle hit tha crumblin wall bout eight inches from her head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da kid cussed n' started windin up fo' another, n' tha hoe decided dat shiznit was time ta muthafuckin bounce.

It looked like there was a openin up in tha direction she needed ta bounce tha fuck out. Well shiiiit, it had definitely been there a moment ago. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch bolted, cleared a gangbangin' fire hydrant, n' was nearly there when one of tha thugs staggered tha fuck into her path.

There was a soft whump, air leavin lungs. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch threw up her handz ta catch her muthafuckin ass as tha pavement rushed up ta hook up her, n' white-hot pain seared all up in her palms as she made impact yo. Her arms gave way n' she knocked her grill against tha ground wit a sickenin smack.

Da riot took a dirt nap up in almost tha same moment, n' when her big-ass booty slowly pushed her muthafuckin ass up off tha pavement she found her muthafuckin ass surrounded by a silent crowd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Biatch spat up blood.

Next ta her, tha pimp dat freaky freaky biatch had collided wit groaned, a hand comin ta his head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Someone snorted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "Yo phat friggin' thang Toby, you beat hoes up a lot?"

"Stuff it, dumbass, I-oh, crap, it straight-up be a girl."

Their lyrics barely registered. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Her handz hurt. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch looked at one, n' found it a funky-ass bloody mess; so was tha other; tha heelz of her palms was thoroughly skinned. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da bright red made her blistered n' scarred handz even pala than usual.

Liftin her head, she found another hand outstretched toward her n' shit. Behind dat was a sheepish-lookin lil' man. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Dat shiznit was one of tha brothers, if tha fact dat schmoooove muthafucka had tha same nozzle n' ears as tha other seven was anythang ta go by yo. Dude was all gangly limbs n' bruises-he had a sick shiner brewin on his fuckin left eye, n' his fuckin lip had been split open up in two places. "Shoot, lady, wasn't lookin' where I was or nothin'-these wiseguys over here be thinkin itz they turn on tha lot-"

"Cuz it is," holla'd one.

Da muthafucka blasted a glare over his shoulder as she ignored his hand n' picked her muthafuckin ass up. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch brushed grime n' gravel off her clothes, looked up all up in tha pack. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She'd bitten her tongue when she fell, n' tested tha sore place wit her teeth.

Her handz felt like hell. They burned, n' not even tha clean, sharp kind of warnin bite from a phat fire. This was a pulsing, mad salty ache. Experimentally she flexed her fingers n' winced all up in tha pain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da one whoz ass had tried ta help her up took notice. "Aw, hell, dat be lookin like it hurts, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. Therez uh, there be a tha corner store just ova' there, you want I should-?"

Bitch shook her head, sayin nothing. There was gravel embedded up in her skin.

"Oh," tha pimp holla'd, deflating. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Someone else up in tha crowd chuckled. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude hunched tha fuck into his dirty ass, handz tucked up in his thugged-out armpits, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. "All, uh, aiiiight then."

Bitch scarcely heard him; dat biiiiatch was already struttin down tha street again.

* * *

Her handz still hurt. Da ache had dulled yo, but touchin anythang wit her palms busted a mad salty flare of pain up her arms. Even so, tha hoe wit tha singed eyebrows had all but torn tha salvage yard apart over tha course of tha afternoon, n' tha only thang dat freaky freaky biatch had ta show fo' dat shiznit was half a red brick.

Bitch threw her muthafuckin ass down on a stack of forlorn mattresses n' glared all up in tha empty wooden crates, tucked behind a row of rustin bicyclez n' warped wit age n' rain. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da crates was supposed ta have bricks up in em. They had had bricks up in dem fo' weeks, they hadn't been touched at all up in tha last half-dozen times she'd hit up tha salvage yard fo' parts n' pieces. Da straight-up fact tha bricks had been there so long was what tha fuck had gots her ta thankin bout dem up in tha straight-up original gangsta place, certain dat thugged-out biiiatch could put dem ta use fo' realz. And now dat dat freaky freaky biatch had finally figured up what tha fuck ta do, one of mah thugs had come along n' swiped em. Whoever dat shiznit was would probably do suttin' wack wit them, too, like pave a garden or something.

Now how tha fuck was her big-ass booty supposed ta build her kiln?

Bitch huffed aloud, n' her breath ruffled tha lock of neglected afro dat had escaped her ponytail while she'd looked fo' bricks elsewhere up in tha yard. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Well shiiiit, it fluttered sadly fo' a instant before hittin her up in tha grill again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch tucked it behind one ear, brushed dirt from her thrift-store clothes, n' then stood. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Da whole dope dizzle had been a waste, n' tha sky was startin ta dim.

Bitch shoved her fucked up handz tha fuck into her pockets, n' went ta wait fo' tha last buz of tha day, thankin bout how tha fuck rockin dem bricks fo' anythang but a kiln was probably a sin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. They had been perfect, tha ideal raw material ta build what tha fuck dat freaky freaky biatch had come ta be thinkin of as a kind of altar.

Twenty minutes later, when tha bus rumbled haltingly ta a stop, dat biiiiatch was thankin of all tha ways dat thugged-out biiiatch could have made mo' betta use of dem bricks. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch barely bigged up tha driver, whoz ass always had suttin' thugged-out ta say, or tha smile from middle-aged bidnizzman wit tha blue tie she often found her muthafuckin ass on tha same routes with. When she automatically stood up n' followed tha gaggle of other ridaz gettin off tha bus, dat biiiiatch was thankin bout alternatives ta bricks n' systematically dismissin em. (Rocks, biatch? Too irregular. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Metal, biatch? Too dangerous, n' where would she git tha right shapes?) As tha crowd dispersed, her big-ass booty stopped, n' looked around.

Around her stood gaunt, dull buildings n' stout lil shops, papered up in billboardz n' tattooed wit graffiti. Whips trundled down tha wide pavement like fat, chilly beetles. Da linez of telephone wires above cast blurry shadows over her, which formed theyselves up in strange crosshatches over whatever they touched. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! A rustin newspaper rack kept a lonely vigil ta her left. Dat shiznit was noisy n' claustrophobic, n' dat freaky freaky biatch had gotten off all up in tha wack stop yo. Home was a phat forty-five minute strutt away.

Da hoe chewed her lip. Then dat thugged-out biiiatch clenched her fists, winced, n' mumbled suttin' unladylike under her breath. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch jaywalked all up in traffic n' turned tha straight-up original gangsta corner dat thugged-out biiiatch came to.

There was a terrific, cracklin bang at her feet, n' she jerked backwards, her eyes wide n' body rigid. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da sound was exactly like tha BB glocks she remembered firin at clay pigeons (and live ones) as a kid; it couldn't be anythang else; whoz ass was blastin at her?

Before dat thugged-out biiiatch could git behind cover-her chizzlez was either tha dented trash can or tha chartreuse VW Beetle parked on tha curb-someone holla'd something, sharp n' low. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch stopped lookin fo' snipers n' instead looked at what tha fuck was up in front of her muthafuckin ass.

A positizzle stork of a funky-ass pimp was starin back at her wit moon-eyes yo. Dude couldn't done been mo' than all dem muthafuckin years tha fuck into his cold-ass twenties, not much younger than her muthafuckin ass yo. His limbs looked too long fo' him, n' he even held his dirty ass like da thug was permanently struttin on stilts yo. Dude clutched a lil' small-ass plastic bag up in one hand, n' dat shiznit was filled wit countless tiny white thangs. "Sorry 'bout that," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Didn't be thinkin no muthafucka'd be comin' dat … oh." His eyebrows jumped, n' tha hoe realized dat schmoooove muthafucka had a hell of a shiner on his fuckin left eye, n' his fuckin lip was split up in two places. "Yo ass is tha one from tha lot!"

Bitch stared back. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shrugged.

Silence ensued. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! They looked at each other until tha muthafucka cleared his cold-ass throat n' straightened up some. "I uh, sorry, 'bout before. Don't be thinkin I holla'd dis shit." His knucklez was bruised.

Bitch shrugged again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude fidgeted, then snapped his wild lil' fingers. "Yo, aiiight, I know. Lemme make it up ta ya, howz free samplez sound?" Dude threw a thumb back over his shoulder as da perved-out muthafucka holla'd dat shit.

Behind his ass stood a white booth as lanky n' crazed as da thug was, set halfway tha fuck into a alley. Bright burstz of color was painted on its sides, n' a red-white-blue striped cloth covered tha top. Da inside of tha booth, behind tha dingy-lookin counter, was dark n' shadowy; faintly, dat thugged-out biiiatch could make up stackz of suttin' on shelvin inside.

"I holla'd ya eva lit a sparkler, lady?" tha muthafucka asked, n' her big-ass booty snapped back ta realitizzle fo' realz. After a long, awkward pause, she jerkily shook her head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude gave her a hockey-player-gapped grin, n' he gestured her over ta tha booth. "Geez, ferreal, biatch? Heck, c'mon back, we'll set you right up. Fourth'a July comin' up, never had a sparkler, damn!"

Baffled, tha hoe followed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Biatch peeped silently as tha pimp disappeared tha fuck into tha booth itself yo. Dude fumbled round up in tha half-dark fo' a moment, then turned n' dropped a thin cardboard box onto tha counter n' shit. Well shiiiit, it looked skankyly made, n' tha front was covered up in bright, stylized explosions. Da lyrics BLAZING GLORY was printed on tha front. "Here we go," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, slidin it open wit a practiced sort of motion. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Dude produced a long, thin stick, mo' than half of it coated up in suttin' blue n' powdery-looking. "Watch all dis bullshit."

Bitch barely heard him: dat schmoooove muthafucka had pulled up a lighter from his thugged-out lil' pocket all up in tha same time. Dat shiznit was a Zippo, brassy wit age, scratched n' dented. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time fo' realz. A 1951 model, maybe, or tha 1966 reissue from last year. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch owned nuff muthafuckin of dat model; dat shiznit was a phat one, though most Zippos were, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Was it engraved?-it was too dark ta tell.

Dude flicked it open, smooth as anything, n' a light blazed tha fuck into game up in tha cavernous booth.

If da perved-out muthafucka holla'd anythang more, she missed dat shit. With a gangbangin' flourish of his bruised handz dat schmoooove muthafucka had presented both firework n' lighter, like a magician bout ta big-ass up a trick, n' then carefully put tha flame ta tha blue tip.

Bitch heard it before her big-ass booty saw it, a gangbangin' fizzlin staccato not-rhythm mixin wit soft tseeers n' cracklin flares. Da Zippo was pulled away n' tha Fire had bloomed tha fuck into suttin' new, bright n' dope threadz of sparks cascadin tha fuck into nothing.

Bitch was transfixed.

"We there yet?" tha pimp panted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Over tha two-by-two-foot crate of newly purchased fireworks cradled up in her arms, tha hoe shook her head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Biatch hadn't been able ta dislodge her smile since tha sparkla was lit. Da bricks, tha incident all up in tha avenue, n' her scraped handz was all forgotten.

Da boy, whoz ass was named Tobias n' apparently hit dat shiznit part-time all up in tha fireworks stand ("I gots seven brothas an' one ma, aiiight, gotta pull mah weight, I ain't no deadbeat."), was almost-but-not-quite laggin a pace or two behind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude done cooked up a thugged-out drawn-out, wispy sort of noise dat thugged-out biiiatch couldn't properly parse. "Awright, we close ta there yet?"

"Almost," tha hoe holla'd.

Her wallet had been utterly skinned of its contents just secondz afta tha sparkla Tobias had pressed tha fuck into her hand sputtered out. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had dropped tha last half-hour fantasizin bout all tha pyrotechnics dat biiiiatch was now tha proud as a muthafucka balla of. Tobias, suddenly without capital n' a lil shell-shocked, had offered ta help her take dem home. Dat shiznit was only gentlemanly, he'd holla'd, n' da perved-out muthafucka still felt he owed her tha favor. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Da alternatizzle would done been nuff muthafuckin trips on her own, so she accepted. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Dat shiznit was efficient.

Behind her, Tobias stumbled. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da teeterin stack of fireworks his schmoooove ass carried did a spectacular leap n' he nearly toppled over entirely (she wasn't shizzle how tha fuck da ruffneck didn't) tryin ta hang onto them; he only regained his balizzle by ploughin hard tha fuck into her shoulder n' shiznit yo. Dude squawked exactly like a cold-ass lil chicken n' reeled backwards, spine board-stiff. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. She'd stopped n' locked her knees ta stay upright, n' swayed half a second before steadyin her muthafuckin ass. "Aw, dammit-crap, miss, sorry," Tobias holla'd, sheepishly. "Yo ass aiiiight?"

Bitch holla'd fo'sho, n' kept going.

Da evenin had turned damp. Overhead, cloudz threatened, n' tha air smoked thick yo, but even tha threat of gin n juice couldn't dull her vibe fo' now, nahmeean, biatch? They had left behind tha big-ass buildings n' cars, n' now tha ghetto was on tha fuckin' down-lowin as evenin drew on n' drained every last muthafuckin thang of its color. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Beneath dem was weed-covered sidewalk, riddled wit cracks like spidery hands. Da remainz of one of mah thugss long-forgotten chicken wire fence had run alongside dem fo' tha last fifty yards. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Fucked up lil trees drooped at shoulder-height here n' there, crowded n' choked by skeletal bushes. Dat shiznit was silent but fo' they footsteps, n' tha occasionizzle breath of wind all up in tha trees.

Da hoe had just stepped over tha last cement slab onto mushy, chronic grass, tha five-minute-mark from her house, when Tobias holla'd, "What was ya doin' all up in tha lot, anyway, biatch? Seems kinda outta yo' way."

Bitch tilted her head ta one side all up in tha question. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Was goin ta tha dump."

"Really, biatch? What for?"

"Bricks. There weren't any, though." Tobias had his own engraved Zippo, n' sold tha straight-up dope lil fireworks-maybe he understood Fire, like a muthafucka. Maybe da thug would KNOW how tha fuck she needed ta make her alter, her monument, n' what tha fuck a travesty tha bricks goin ta suttin' undoubtably mundane was. "I be buildin a kiln."

"A whoosit?"

Oh.

Bitch sighed, n' just gestured wit a jerk of her head fo' his ass ta follow.

They came round a funky-ass bend up in tha scraggly trees n' run-down fence, followin what tha fuck might have been, at some point up in its game, a path yo. Here tha immediate view was one wit oldschool wooden houses dottin tha landscape, up in various statez of decay n' neglect fo' realz. An especially sagging, squat lil home stood a lil off ta one side, red up in color. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Dat shiznit was surrounded by a high chain-link fence dat seemed put together from scrap, chunkz of salvaged pieces lashed together wit twine n' barbed wire fo' realz. A robin's-egg-blue shed-in even worse disrepair than tha rest, leanin crazily ta one side n' lookin like it might collapse at any moment-lay just beyond tha doggy den itself.

Tobias had caught up wit her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch glanced at him, n' found his ass gawkin all up in tha sickly buildings n' tha chain-link monstrosity. "That," da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, "wow. Tell me no muthafucka lives there."

"I do," her big-ass booty holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! His head whipped round ta stare at her yo, but dat biiiiatch was already struttin toward dat shit. Dat shiznit was a perfectly phat house; what tha fuck a puzzlin thang ta say bout dat shit.

Da wind picked up as Tobias trailed afta her, bendin tha scrubs n' tha wild rosebushes dat ruled tha landscape as it went. Da hoe fumbled wit tha doorz handle, then eased it open: tha rusted lock on it had never hit dat shiznit as long as she'd lived there.

Tobias peeped her disappear tha fuck into tha dark grill of tha doorway, n' followed slowly yo. Dude hung back on tha stoop, watchin her as her big-ass booty set tha crate of fireworks on a spindly table. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch did suttin' wit her hands, n' suddenly, there was light fo' realz. An old-fashioned candle dat thugged-out biiiatch cradled gently threw her shadow past her n' over tha dark shapes up in tha room.

Hummin gently, she flitted round tha room, lightin mo' n' mo' candles: wall-mounted ones, ones chillin on side-tables, a whole clusta of blue ones chillin up in tha bottom of what tha fuck was probably once a aquarium. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch ignored tha light switch set tha fuck into one wall; tha wirin was shot, n' besides, dat freaky freaky biatch had never owned a lightbulb.

Deep shadows ate tha furthest cornerz of tha room, while tha ridin' dirty lights revealed a home dat was at once both spartan n' disorderly. There was not straight-up much there, beyond tha candles, n' tha lil' small-ass collection of tools, bowls, n' corrugated-cardboard boxes scattered n' stacked on every last muthafuckin available surface fo' realz. A calendar three muthafuckin years outta date hung on one wall. Everythang smelled like a cold-ass lil campfire.

Tobias might as well aint existed fo' all attention tha hoe gave his muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch fell tha fuck now upon tha fireworks, all fast fingers n' eager gestures. They was laid up one-by-one on tha table, stacked n' arranged by size n' color, quick as anything. Da crate clattered onto tha floor, empty, n' dat dunkadelic hoe turned back ta Tobias, handz outstretched.

"I can take dem now," her big-ass booty holla'd.

Tobias gawped down at her, n' up in return her big-ass booty stared fixedly at his baffled face. When da ruffneck did not a god damn thang else, dat freaky freaky biatch huffed softly, n' simply took as nuff as dat thugged-out biiiatch could carry right off tha top of tha stack.

They had already joined tha others by tha time Tobias came back ta his dirty ass, n' set tha rest on tha edge of tha table fo' her n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch grabbed n' sorted dem too, n' then they was just both standin there, lookin all up in tha fireworks-or dat biiiiatch was, at least. Tobias was starin at her all up in tha haze of tha candlelight n' makin no attempt ta hide dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had folded her arms across her chest, n' was smilin a private smile.

"Well uh," Tobias holla'd, afta a while n' wit his handz shoved up in his thugged-out lil' pockets, "guess I mo' betta git back, anyway. Boss'll wanna know where all his crap went. Uh, sorry bout earlier."

Da hoe started, as if dat freaky freaky biatch had forgotten da thug was there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Then she looked at him, n' afta a sort of fucked up delay, extended her smile ta him, like a muthafucka. Well shiiiit, it felt awkward, stretchin her grill fo' so long. "Yeah. It aint nuthin but fine."

"Cool."

And as Tobias strutted home all dem minutes later, they peace outs exchanged, he realized dat schmoooove muthafucka had forgotten ta ask her name.

* * *

**Hello! Yeah, I know, recycling a fanfiction, but I just couldn't resist.**

**This, in case you didn't realise, is W.C. Pemm's ****_Sparkler_****, ran through an awesome site called Gizoogle. I don't own Gizoogle, TF2, or ****_Sparkler_****, but I thought this would be hilarious.**

**If this gets enough views, I might even do the other chapters.**

**Ciao!**


	2. Diesel

There was no bricks. There was no bricks anywhere.

Two minutes afta dat freaky freaky biatch had looted up Tobias' fireworks stand, tha hoe wit tha singed eyebrows found her muthafuckin ass empty-handed, chillin ridin' solo at a funky-ass bus stop on tha corner of a on tha down-low suburb, n' not shizzle what tha fuck ta do next fo' realz. All her usual haunts fo' dubiously free shit-the salvage yard, tha Salvation Army, any n' every last muthafuckin construction joint up in a gangbangin' five-mile radius-were devoid of bricks. There was just not a god damn thang yo. Her kiln was shot, at least until further notice.

Dat shiznit was wack yo, but dat freaky freaky biatch had other projects ta work on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch yo. Her various buildin plans had consumed her game tha last few years, n' tha kiln had been one of tha last thangs on her list. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch could fix up her shed, her big-ass booty supposed, dull as tha scam was. Well shiiiit, it had started creakin dangerously up in tha wind lately. On tha other hand, todizzle dat freaky freaky biatch had found a gangbangin' finger-lickin' discarded, intact gas pump handle all up in tha salvage yard. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dat shiznit was such a unusual find, n' dat biiiiatch was shizzle dat thugged-out biiiatch could find suttin' ta do wit dat shit.

Da pump handle was at her feet, n' dat biiiiatch was chillin on tha warped bench of tha bus stop, waiting. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch sighed, n' inspected her handz again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da scrapes had scabbed over tha fuck into bangin-ass patterns dat dat thugged-out biiiatch couldn't help pickin at. They hurt less yo, but her storez of gauze n' antiseptic was thinning, so they'd remained unbandaged. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Diggin all up in debris fo' another afternoon had done her no favors.

Bitch almost missed tha bus pullin ta a halt up in front of tha stop. Well shiiiit, it honked, startlin her outta her thoughts, n' her big-ass booty scrambled aboard. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da driver, a olda biatch wit startlin amountz of curls, waved. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Deep thoughts again n' again n' again todizzle, love?"

"Guess so."

"Whatz dat you have dis time?" Da driver nodded ta tha handle danglin from her fingers.

Bitch shrugged. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Just a thang."

"One mo' fo' tha collection, huh." Da driver chuckled ta her muthafuckin ass, n' tha hoe found a empty seat up in tha half-filled bus. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch passed tha bidnizzman wit tha blue tie, mindlessly returned his cold-ass traditionizzle smile, n' sat down.

Da bus rolled on, n' dat dunkadelic hoe thought bout what tha fuck ta do wit tha handle up in her lap until it stopped again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some playas gots off n' some playas gots on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch processed it up in tha same half-aware way she processed most thangs unrelated ta Fire. When one of mah thugs dropped tha fuck into tha seat next ta her n' holla'd, "Heya!" loudly, she bout jumped outta her skin.

Dat shiznit was Tobias, grinnin his hockey-player grin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. To complete tha look, dat schmoooove muthafucka had a pair of ice skates slung over one shoulder n' a hockey stick up in his hand, n' was bustin a offensively bright jersey yo. His lip had mostly healed yo, but tha black eye still stood up as phat as tha dizzle they'd met. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch stared at his ass fo' a gangbangin' full ten secondz before answering. "Hi."

"Didn't know if I'd seeya again!" da perved-out muthafucka started up cheerfully, n' da hoe barely gots a "Yeah," up in edgewise before tha pimpin' muthafucka took over n' shit. "Man I was just at practice, yeah, biatch? We gettin' good, I mean real good. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Yo ass know anythin' bout hockey, biatch? Heard'a tha Sharks?" Biatch shook her head, n' he looked pissed tha fuck off fo' a gangbangin' fraction of a second. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Aw, well, thassalright. Thatz mah crew, tha Sharks, right, an' next week we gots a game against tha Jets, n' you can put dat on yo' toast. We gonna kick they butts, lemme tell ya! Buncha spineless wimps, couldn't hit a puck if ya held it still fo' 'em!"

It didn't stop, n' she found all dat freaky freaky biatch had ta do was occasionally nod or cook up some fuckin kind of noise whenever Tobias paused fo' breath up in his chipper babbling. Dat shiznit was sick, actually; da ruffneck didn't seem ta want her ta straight-up KNOW what tha fuck da thug was goin on about, just dat dat biiiiatch would listen.

After a while his fuckin lyrics sort of blurred together, n' dat biiiiatch was simply trippin' off his sheer enthusiasm. Enthusiazzle seemed rare no mo'. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was driftin up in dis pleasant not-listenin when suttin' prodded her arm, n' dat thugged-out biiiatch came back ta realitizzle ta peep Tobias givin her a cold-ass lil curious look. "Huh?"

"I holla'd whatz yer name?" A pause. "If I can ask I mean. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I forgot ta th'other day."

Bitch blinked at him, tryin ta shake outta tha chillinizz his chatter had brought on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Oh. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Sure." And dat dunkadelic hoe holla'd at his muthafuckin ass.

Dude repeated it back ta her, as if testin it, then burst tha fuck into a smile again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "I wanna bust a nut on dat shit. Dope name!"

Bitch quirked one brow up, entertained. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Thanks."

"Y'know, I gots like dis uncle whoz ass do all dis crew tree stuff, biatch? Dat punk wild-ass bout names. Like you can't go visit his ass without gettin' yo' ear talked right off. I go peep him, right, n' he like, hmm, fo'sho, Toby, means 'you will fall outta a tree n' land on a rake' or somethin'." Tobias leaned closer ta her, droppin his voice conspiratorially. "But tha real kicker is his name is Nimrod. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! How tha fuck pimped out is that?"

Her snort was louder than she expected, n' then they was both laughing. Gradually it petered off, n' Tobias shifted up in his seat yo. Dude was fidgetin wit his jersey. "So uh, hey, like, what're you doin' t-"

There was tremendous squealin of tires, a sickenin lurch, n' a horrific crunch of metal, louder than thunder.

A collectizzle noise of shock filled tha bus as it pitched sideways at a angle, n' tha hoe could feel tha asphalt rippin away tha rubber beneath em. Tobias was hurled tha fuck into her lap, bustin tha pump handle clatterin against tha side of tha bus, n' tha blade of one of his skates grazed her cheek.

Then every last muthafuckin thang shuddered ta a stop, n' one of mah thugs behind dem screamed.

Bitch smelled gasoline. When tha bus had swerved she'd thrown up her hairy-ass legs n' arms, tryin ta brace her muthafuckin ass against tha seat up in front of her n' tha metal ta tha side. Now her joints ached from tha impact, scabbed-over palms complainin loudly. Tobias had wound up halfway across her knees, obscurin whatever had happened. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Biatch twisted up in her seat, tryin ta peep over Tobias' shoulder.

Da first thang her big-ass booty saw was smoke, n' then tha twilight sky all up in a gap twisted tha fuck into tha metal, just above where a cold-ass lil hoopty had socked all up in tha side of tha bus. Dat shiznit was so close ta dem dat dat thugged-out biiiatch could have touched it if she leaned up tha fuck into tha aisle. Da hood was lodged directly over what tha fuck used ta be two rowz of seats, a cold-ass lil crumpled nest of chrome n' black n' bright, bright red.

Around her, tha air had become filled wit panicky voices. Dimly dat biiiiatch was aware dat Tobias had pushed his dirty ass up off of her, n' dat tha driver was yellin fo' mah playas ta git off tha bus, git tha hell off fo' realz. All of it seemed faraway, unimportant, compared ta tha mangled thang wedged between tha hood n' tha seats.

Bitch could scarcely tell what tha fuck was what. Dat shiznit was a mess of blood n' torn threadz n' hair. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Chunkz of sheared flesh was stuck behind tha bumper n' shit. Bone shardz decorated tha stained fabric yo. Half of a gangbangin' grill n' a wide n' unseein eye stared up at not a god damn thang from under tha hoopty fo' realz. A blue tie splattered wit red spilled down over tha mess like a lollin tongue.

Dat shiznit was tha bidnizzman, she realized.

"Oh," Tobias was sayin at her side, up in a weak voice. "Oh, Jizzy. Jizzy Christ."

Somethang unfamiliar n' suffocatin n' electric was ta settlin over her n' shit. Not revulsion-not fear-suttin' else. "Dat punk dead," holla'd tha girl. "That's. Dat punk dead as fuckin fried chicken."

"No shit?!" snapped Tobias, tearin his wild lil' fuckin eyes away ta give her a incredulous stare yo. Dude looked sick.

Everythang was noise n' sound n' horrible. Da driver was there then, suddenly, spittin some lyrics ta dem they had ta go, they had ta go now, nahmeean?

Bitch stared all up in tha wreck n' tha body fo' another long second before she obeyed, grabbin tha miraculously intact handle as she followed a keeled-over Tobias. Da smell of diesel n' smoke followed her out.

* * *

Da hoe wit tha singed eyebrows picked absently all up in tha band-aid one of mah thugs had put over tha cut on her cheek.

An minute had passed, n' no one had been allowed ta bounce back ta tha doggy den yet, fo' reasons dat freaky freaky biatch had missed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Biatch n' Tobias had dropped most of dat time chillin wit they backs ta a pockmarked telephone pole, facin away from tha crash. Neither of dem had holla'd anything, n' she preferred it dat way.

Da suburban street seemed on tha fuckin' down-lower than it should have been. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A five-o hoopty was parked on tha curb near tha crash, idlin wit a soft rumble. One or two of tha playas whoz ass had come up from they cribs ta peep what tha fuck tha fuss was bout was still watchin from they porches. Far away, tha blurry hood lights glowed n' flickered, n' at either end of tha street headlights would sometimes reflect off tha day-glo yellow tape dat read POLICE LINE - DO NOT CROSS - POLICE LINE.

In tha last hour, dat freaky freaky biatch had hustled tha following: a cold-ass lil hoopty had pulled outta a funky-ass blind alley. They hadn't been able ta identify tha body up in tha bus yet. Da bus driver had a stronger stomach than tha five-o fool dat had come ta handle tha crash. Tobias performed badly under stress. Up close, ambulances was loud.

For tha last few minutes, dat freaky freaky biatch had been thankin bout tha body. Mo' specifically, how tha fuck two minutes ago tha balla of dat body had looked over his newspaper at her n' smiled before lookin back down, like he always had. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Now da thug was chunkz of meat up in a lumpy body bag bein wheeled away by tha paramedics. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had never peeped a thugged-out dead thug before, not straight-up, n' it occurred ta her dat tha fact dat freaky freaky biatch had peeped one at all did not straight-up shiznit her muthafuckin ass.

Bitch wasn't upset. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had a kind of scam dat maybe dat biiiiatch was meant ta be. Maybe-the bidnizzman had been a sort of playa, as far as dat freaky freaky biatch had playaz yo. Human emotion dictated her big-ass booty should be, at least, a lil shitd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Right, biatch? Bothered, surely fo' realz. And yet there was nothing. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch did not feel much different than dat freaky freaky biatch had all dem minutes ago.

Tobias was certainly upset, n' dat schmoooove muthafucka hadn't even known tha muthafucka.

A glizzle his way found his ass chillin wit his fuckin long hairy-ass legs crossed, knees stickin up so far dat shiznit was comical. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack yo. Dude held his wild lil' grill up in one hand, n' tha other was tangled up in a handful of weedz growin up all up in tha cracks up in tha sidewalk they sat on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. At his side lay his skates n' hockey stick yo. Dude was starin tha fuck into tha distizzle down tha street, his wild lil' fuckin eyes outta focus.

"Tobias?"

Tobias flinched, hard. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Dude sat bolt upright n' it took his ass a moment ta realize dat shiznit was her whoz ass had spoken. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There was suttin' hustled bout tha way he looked at her n' shit. "What?"

Da hoe put her head ta one side, questioningly. "Should I be upset?"

A silence fell tha fuck over em. Tobias was perfectly still, n' his wild lil' fuckin expression had suddenly gone impenetrable; dat thugged-out biiiatch couldn't place it as anythang fo' all dem seconds, n' then it went from blank ta straight-up nonplussed, n' then incredulous yo. Dude opened his crazy-ass grill, n' then shut it, n' opened it again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. In tha end da perved-out muthafucka holla'd nothing, and, irritated, her big-ass booty was rappin instead. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Because I be not."

Beside her, Tobias exhaled, slowly. "Well," da perved-out muthafucka started. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. "I uh. I guess I dunno."

"Yo ass is upset, though," her big-ass booty holla'd pointedly.

At her lyrics he jerked away, visibly, like she'd tried ta hit his muthafuckin ass. "Well 'scuze me fo' havin' a problem gettin' up close n' underground wit a cold-ass lil corpse!" da perved-out muthafucka snapped, gettin ta his Nikes. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch stared. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "I be gonna have nightmares fo' a, a gangbangin' fuckin' year, aiiiight, biatch? Dogg hommie! Da muthafucka was friggin' … da thug was right there, an', an' there was blood everywhere an' … Jizzy Christ … how tha fuck can dat not upset a muthafucka?"

An uncomfortable pause, n' she realized he straight-up wanted a answer n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch had no such thang. For a long-ass few secondz she looked at his ass fixedly, n' then back all up in tha horizon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch regretted tha question, now, nahmeean, biatch? Of course Tobias was upset. Tobias was a wack loudmouth.

Dude sagged, n' tha tension up in tha air drained away yo. Dude kicked at his skates. "It's," da perved-out muthafucka started, then stopped. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Well shiiiit, it took his ass a moment, n' then all dat shiznit spilled up so quickly her dope ass didn't process it right away. "I was gonna ta sit next ta dat muthafucka 'til I saw yo thugged-out ass." With a thugged-out deep, shudderin breath, he knelt ta pick up his hockey stick. "I keep thinkin' bout dis shit. Okay, biatch? That coulda been me under there, I coulda…" Dude bit his fuckin lip, n' spun tha stick between his thugged-out lil' palms.

Oh.

"Excuse me son?" holla'd a freshly smoked up voice.

Da hoe twisted ta look behind her n' shiznit fo' realz. A dude, clad up in a light blue dress hoodie wit a funky-ass black tie n' bustin a peaked cap, was standin behind em yo. Dude had one hand pressed against tha telephone pole, n' he looked tired. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Yo ass is free ta go now fo' realz. Apologies f'the wait, couldn't be helped. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Do you two need a ride?"

Tobias slid a hand all up in his cropped afro n' sighed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "That, yeah. If you offerin'. My fuckin maz gonna be wonderin' where I be at."

In another ten minutes, they stepped outta tha five-o hoopty onto tha inner hood sidewalk ("Can strutt from here," Tobias had holla'd, n' dat freaky freaky biatch had no complaint). Night had set in, n' dat shiznit was tha bleary haze of a cold-ass lil hood night dat never gots like dark fo' realz. A streetlight stood all dem yardz away, n' they was on a funky-ass bridge above tha canal dat weaved from one end of hood ta tha other n' shit. Tobias stretched up his fuckin long legs, sighed, n' plodded over ta tha rail ta peep tha gin n juice n' shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch did tha same. There was not a god damn thang mo' betta ta do.

Dude had slung his thugged-out arms over tha railin n' leaned up over tha water, so she followed suit, carefully. For a long-ass while they just stayed like that, despite tha chill up in tha air, n' tha headache her dope ass discovered beginnin ta throb up in her temple dat grew worse tha longer she looked all up in tha water.

"Y'know I once had dis playa named Lenny?" Tobias holla'd. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Biatch glanced over at his muthafuckin ass. "Dope muthafucka, pretty much a thugged-out dumbass, built like a truck. Me n' Lenny, we was hommies from tha word go, yeah, biatch? Kicked It Wit each other up in second grade yo. Dude gots me tha fuck into hockey, kicked mah ass at it every last muthafuckin dizzle til we was fourteen. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. But da thug wasn't eva a jerk bout it, right, he'd just laugh n' be like, hey, keep trying, it'll happen."

His voice trailed off, n' dat freaky freaky biatch had been bout ask why da thug was spittin some lyrics ta her dis when da thug went on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Dude holla'd dat all muthafuckin day. It make me wanna hollar playa! 'Keep trying, it'll happen.' Dude was a real softie, like a muthafucka. Like, once, mah neighborz pussaaaaay had kittens, biatch? An' dat thugged-out biiiatch couldn't feed no kittens, her big-ass booty holla'd, so dat biiiiatch was gonna drown 'em, n' when Lenny heard 'bout dat da thug went right over n' looted 'em all fo' ten bucks. Ten bucks fo' a funky-ass buncha cats muthafucka! And da thug wasn't loaded or nothin' yo. Hell, da thug was skankyer'n shit. Didn't push tha cats, though cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. Gave mah sista one when dat shiznit was oldschool enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce. God, she loved that, still has tha damn thang. Named it Puzzle." As da perved-out muthafucka spoke, he'd let a smile drift onto his wild lil' face. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch peeped him, silent, n' da ruffneck didn't look back, just stared up over tha murky ripplez of tha canal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. "Real softie…"

Tobias reached up n' pressed his wild lil' fingers ta his wild lil' forehead, like dat schmoooove muthafucka had a headache like a muthafucka yo. His eyes was shut. "Shiznit, I dunno why I be tellin' you all dis bullshit." Kicked It Wit wit silence, he exhaled heavily. "Moron couldn't let nothin' go under his nozzle if tha pimpin' muthafucka thought his schmoooove ass could stop it yo. Dude lived over up in Sunrise, y'know dat hood?" Biatch shook her head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Fuck dat shit, well, you from outta town, Sunrise is wack news. Nowheresville. Ghetto. Gangs, lotsa flakes n' hippies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Lennyz folks couldn't eva straight-up hack it so they was stuck there n' lemme rap , he gots his thugged-out ass kicked all tha damn time 'cuz he'd go stick his nozzle anywhere tha pimpin' muthafucka thought there was shiznit fo' realz. An'… y'know… one dizzle he gots shiznit back."

Dude cricked his neck, n' slouched. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Guess dis was round bout three muthafuckin years back. Way I heard it da thug was tryin' ta git dis girlz ex or somethin' ta lay off her one night up in a alley or somethin', keep his ass busy while she legged dat shit. Kept his ass busy all right. Got jabbed four times. When they found Lenny, he'd already-y'know. Gone ta peep tha big-ass muthafucka upstairs."

Da canal burbled under them, n' tha hoe had taken ta lookin at it instead of Tobias, even though it made her headache worse n' her stomach lurch yo. His voice had gone wobbly near tha end yo, but it ain't no stoppin cause I be still poppin'. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was supposed ta say something, dat dunkadelic hoe thought, like "I be sorry" or "How tha fuck awful" yo, but dat freaky freaky biatch had not a god damn thang ta say.

By tha time his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started again, at least, he'd gotten his dirty ass under control. "I can't figure it out, I guess. I mean Lenny took a dirt nap kind of a hero. If dat schmoooove muthafucka had ta go that'd'a been what tha fuck he'd pick, savin' some muthafucka. But why'd dat schmoooove muthafucka have t'go at all, biatch? Dude kept tryin' an' all dat happened was he gots capped." Dude started fumblin fo' suttin' up in his thugged-out lil' pocket, n' when dat freaky freaky biatch heard tha familiar snap of a Zippo lighter she looked up yo. Dude was cuppin it n' a Newport up in his spindly handz yo. Dude pocketed tha lighter n' took a long-ass pull before bustin lyrics again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "An' tha muthafucka under tha damn hoopty back there, what'd da ruffneck do ta deserve that, biatch? Nothin'. Or hell, whadda I know, maybe da ruffneck did deserve it, maybe he friggin' beat his hoe or somethin'. Or maybe he pimped his kidz basebizzle league n' rang Salvation Army bells at Chrizzle. We shizzle ain't eva gonna know."

There was mo' da thug wanted ta let out, dat thugged-out biiiatch could tell yo, but dat schmoooove muthafucka held it in. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch found her muthafuckin ass chewin on her tongue, up in tha same sore place from tha fall, n' her headache was gettin sharper n' shit. "I'd peep his ass on dat route a lot," her big-ass booty holla'd at last. "Always smiled all up in mah face."

"There you go, n' now da perved-out muthafucka smoked meat on a gurney," Tobias hissed, bitin on his blunt. Da menstrual image brought back tha scene on tha bus, n' her dope ass discovered, finally, a erection. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Da memory moved suttin' up in her, at least; there was tha faintest lurch of horror up in her gut, so pale as ta be a pimp. Then dat shiznit was gone, utterly overridden by-what, biatch? Fascination, maybe, or curiosity. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch wasn't sure. What would fire do ta a human body?

Tobias took another heavy drag, twistin tha blunt between his wild lil' fingers as he exhaled a long-ass trail of smoke. Then he offered it ta her n' shiznit yo. His hand was bobbin so faintly she nearly missed it, n' his skin was clammy when they knucklez brushed as dat dunkadelic hoe took dat shit. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch fitted it between her lips, took a experimenstrual pull, n' he asked, "Yo ass straight-up ain't upset?"

Bitch glanced over at his ass n' found his ass watchin her steadily. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch thought bout dat shit.

"No," her dope ass decided.

It occurred ta her, as da hoe blew tha smoke up all up in her teeth n' admired it, dat there might be suttin' wack wit her muthafuckin ass.

* * *

**HA! CHAPTER 2!**

**I think that Corgi's reaction to the last chapter was amazing, so I'm extending the length of this rewrite!**

**I'm so sorry.**


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